Hearts And Minds
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: How did Peeta figure out that it would be a good idea to Tell All at the interview?


**With Thanks: **to IshyMaria, for the beta-read, and to my f-list, for the encouragement. ;)

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><p>After the first day of training, Peeta and I meet for dinner with Haymitch and Effie. Haymitch goes over everything that happened in the gymnasiums, with tips for the next day. Effie rattles on about making a good impression and not allowing anyone to get the full measure of what we can do. I listen, but say very little. Peeta does the same. Finally, it seems, we're to be left to our own devices for an hour or two. Haymitch and Effie get up to leave.<p>

"Get some rest, but if you can't sleep, the Games Forums are a good resource – well, they are!" defends Effie, as Haymitch rolls his eyes. "It's not as if the Gamemakers post there, but you can get a good idea of what plays well to the crowds, and tactics that have worked in the past! I've told the Avoxes to set you up with accounts. You can't respond to anything you see there:, obviously, but you can access and read everything."

Effie's an idiot in a lot of ways, but when it comes to the Games, I'm realizing, she's usually dead on, and it's not like either of us have ever been here before. After they've gone, Peeta and I set up on the consoles in the study.

It takes me a while to figure out how to work the thing. The console tablets and the Netfeeds are strictly toys for the Capitol residents – they wouldn't trust the District folk with a resource like this, not for anything – and even for the spoiled brats here, it's text-only. I start to poke around the Games Forums, right now the most active place I have access to.

It's awful.

They're not allowed to place bets or even to post odds online – the Gamers' Monopoly made sure they can only do that in person, but they do everything else. Rumors, gossip and speculation are running wild. Partisans are talking up their favored districts, and somehow this bothers me most of all, the jaded are whining about how boring the Games will be this year, how they can't possibly measure up to last year's (or last decade's) Games, and how (especially with those hicks from District 12) the Tributes are all flash and no substance.

My fingers itch to send a response. "I'm so _very_sorry my death won't provide the level of entertainment you're accustomed to!" but of course I can't. My lip curls up in disgust. I hit the first link I run across, just to get away from them.

And then it gets worse.

This forum is called "Hungry For More." I tap around a little bit before I realize what it is.

It's _fiction_.

They're writing _stories_about the Games.

They're rewriting how past Games actually went so that their favorites will win this time. Love stories, hate stories and, of all things, smutty stories. The blush feels like it's going to become permanent.

I run across one from the 73rd Games, about the Tributes from District 12, and I can't fight the tears anymore. It's all about how barbaric we are, about how we live in the mines and can barely speak properly. How we're stunted and stupid. Pages and pages about our Tributes learning to eat real food and use indoor plumbing.

And that we're glad to die having at least once tasted Civilization.

I can't help it. I slam my hand down on the desk and stand up. Peeta looks up at me, shocked. I yell. "This is it. This how they spend their time. Why can't they even pretend that we're actual, living people?"

I run out of the room towards my apartment.

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><p>"Katniss!" Peeta cried after her. He sighed. God knows he didn't like it any more than she did - it was appalling, but (if they were exceptionally fortunate) there would be time for one of them to hate it later. Right now, they needed every edge they could get.<p>

District 12 needed a winner. There were so many people who were one illness, one accident, one bit of bad luck away from disaster. If they could just get a little breathing room, get just a little bit ahead, it would make a world of difference, and the bounties paid to the Winner's District would be more than enough. Katniss was the best bet they'd had in years. He'd give his own life to save hers, but there were an infinite number of ways to die in the Arena, and not even the fleetest foot or truest arrow could necessarily escape an earthquake, volcano, tidal wave or whatever catastrophe the sadistic minds of the Gamemakers could cook up. If she died despite his best endeavors, he would do his best to prevail. If he could not prevail, then at least he would show that he could not be beaten.

Make no mistake, Peeta Mellark wanted to live. He just wouldn't kill the girl he loved to do it.

Wrung out, he put his face in his hands. He'd stared at the ceiling the whole night of that awful train trip, reliving the harrowing day before. Hearing Primrose Everdeen's name called out was almost worse than hearing his own, both because he liked Prim and because everyone within earshot of the loudspeakers knew exactly what Katniss Everdeen would do next. He was reeling from that hit when his own punch to the gut came a minute later.

All eyes were still on her, even as he took the stand next to Effie.

He was not at all surprised at the salute they gave her. Though she apparently didn't realize it, she had nearly everyone's respect. When her father died, she'd been dealt an awful hand, even by the brutal standards of the Seam, and yet, at eleven years of age, she'd shouldered her father's burdens – a useless woman and a fragile girl - without complaint. District 12 held that kind of grit in high esteem.

Mrs. Everdeen was hated by the townfolk for marrying so far beneath her, and hated by the miners for what they referred to as "putting on airs." She'd managed to earn back some respect with her apothecary work, but nobody on the Seam ever forgot entirely.

Nobody on the Seam ever forgot anything.

And certainly not his own mother. Nobody ever said anything explicitly, but the lines were pretty clearly drawn, and it wasn't hard to read between them. His father had been one of Katniss' mother's many admirers, and, while Mr. Mellark never failed to do his duty by his wife and children, Peeta's oldest brother had been born six months after his parents got married. It didn't take a whole lot of imagination to color in that picture.

Peeta, out of all his brothers, resembled his father the most. Honestly, he wondered if that was why his mother hated him so. She'd spotted him, once, as his eyes followed Katniss across the square, and caught him a nasty blow across the ear. She began to harangue him, screaming that she'd see him marry a respectable girl and not some nasty little twitch from the Seam.

He tried not to think about his mother's parting words, and how much they twisted and burned in his gut. He let out a long sigh. Katniss always had trouble detaching her feelings in order to look at something dispassionately: something with which Peeta had had an unfortunate amount of practice. Turning back to the present problems, he raised his head and pulled up the forum that had so infuriated her.

In some ways, he had a stronger stomach than she. He found most of it to be pretty funny. Nobody writing any of these, it seemed, had the slightest clue what life was like in any of the Districts. There was an astonishing number of love stories for fiction based on a really gory, lethal, real-life events. Did they seriously think that anyone but the Careers hoped to be chosen? Did they really think that everyone in the Districts just dreamed of going to the Capitol? Did they really think the Tributes were all desperate not to die as virgins?

And, honestly, did they really think that anatomy worked that way?

He started to click into the historical games. Here, there was a level of obsession that boggled his imagination. There were careful recreations, by authors who had apparently actually visited the sites and watched the reenactments. There was more analysis and second guessing than could possibly be believed. There was an awful lot of awful romance here, too – he was pretty sure that psychotic breaks that descended to cannibalism really couldn't be cured by the love of a good woman alone, but then, what did he know?

He clicked at random in the Quarter Quell section.  
><em><br>Haymitch looked deep into her amethyst orbs, and kissed her. She tasted of strawberries. He pressed his hand into her firm-yet-supple - _

Peeta hit the back button quickly. There was a limit to even what he could take.

He looked over at the main fiction menu again, and read through it. He cocked his head: he section labeled "OTP" seemed to be growing by hundreds of posts every minute. He clicked in, if only to find out what "OTP" meant.

They were arguing over which Tributes made the best couple.

"OTP" apparently stood for "One True Pairing." The District pairs were the obvious choices, but there were some arguments for others as well – Cato and Glimmer seemed to be popular, as did Thresh and, well, really, just about everybody else, male and female. But nobody, nobody could hold a candle (as it were) to Peeta and Katniss, the Couple on Fire.

In shock, he pushed himself back from the table, his eyes wide. Of course. That made sense. They were the most dramatic, in their fiery costumes, and they had held hands. This was, apparently, more than was necessary to prove true and undying love.  
><em><br>If only,_he thought sadly.

The participants in this particular thread were fighting with an almost religious fervor, as if their lives depended on it. They shouted vicious comments back and forth, insults that would be killing words back home. Their vehemence shocked him, but it gave him the germ of an idea. Popular support, right? That's what was required to win? Here were hundreds, if not thousands of partisans, all riled up and ready to go, and he wouldn't even have to lie. Besides, if he was ever going to tell her how he felt, it would have to be soon anyway.

She'd be furious. She'd never speak to him again. Unless... well, that was more than he dared hope for. He promised himself he'd do anything to help her. Did he really mean that?

He shut off the console with a quick, stabbing motion, and ran off to find Haymitch.


End file.
